Strangers In The Night
by CE Winters
Summary: 1930s Manhattan socialite Blaine has come to the Florida beaches for the winter holiday. There, he meets the mysterious Kurt Hummel. He immediately feels a connection to this stranger but Kurt has a dangerous secret that could cost them everything.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Welcome, welcome folks! :) I'm CE, and I have yet another story to bring to you (without finishing one - WHAT IS THIS SICKNESS I HAVE?) Thanks so much for clicking into this story! This is actually a rather important note: I have an incurable tenancy to make absolutely every aspect of a story 150% historically accurate. This one is set in the 1930s. Now, I don't know how many of you are familiar with the American 30s, so I put together a little references section that I'd recommend you read, just to orient yourselves :) It'll be below this author's note and before the song. _

_This story is Part One in what I like to call The Sinatra Trilogy (yes, I do know that he's from a different time period). The second installment will be called "Something Stupid", and I'm 50% sure that the third will be "Summer Wind". This was supposed to be a one-shot (a veeeerry long one-shot) but I thought it would be more fun to put it out in chapters because there's a lot of suspicion and questions that won't be resolved until the end and I'd like to hear your thoughts! I'm shooting for this story to be three chapters! I've been listening to a lot of Sinatra lately (his voice is sex), and I got the idea for this story in particular because I'm enamored with Fred and Ginger movies and was just recollecting _The Gay Divorcee_, which is aptly but misleadingly named._

_About the Boston accent: I am most assuredly not from Boston (unfortunately) and all the way on the other side of the country, we have little to no knowledge about such accents. That said, the Boston accent is one of my absolute favorite, so no disrespect is meant to Bostonians. I get my knowledge of it solely from Papa Google and Boston Rob, who happens to be one of my favorite people on this planet and the honoree of what must now be a ten year long crush. I highly suggest reading the dialogue out loud if you can't immediately pick up on what's being said._

_This has officially been too long! Enjoy! (And go learn something! I promise that you will! :P)_

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><p><em>Important Dates:<em>

1920 to 1933 – Prohibition in the United States.

1920 – Edith Wharton publishes the Pulitzer Prize winning novel, _The Age of Innocence_, set in upper class New York.

1920s – Louis Armstrong rises to fame. (For more about Armstrong's purpose in this story, see Bing Crosby.)

October 1929 – Black Thursday. The month the stock market crashed on Wall Street, and the effective beginning of the Great Depression.

1930 – Galvin Corporation invents the first car radio. Founders, and brothers, Paul and Joe Galvin come up with the name Motorola for their new car radio brand.

September 2, 1931 – Bing Crosby makes his solo radio debut. His popularity boomed quickly. Ten out of the top fifty songs in 1931 featured Crosby and he would soon become one of America's most famous singers. (What's ironic here is that Bing Crosby was heavily influenced by Louis Armstrong and tried to mimic his style, especially in his early days. I tried to use this as a subtle tool to expose some of Henry Anderson's character.)

_Important People_:

Alexis F. du Pont and Mary Chichester – The father and mother of this story's Du Pont family.

Alexis Felix du Pont, Jr. – Called Felix. The oldest of the Du Pont children. He graduated from Princeton in 1929, two years before this story was set.

Richard Chichester du Pont – The middle child of the Du Pont family. He and Blaine are meant to be the same age. In 1932, a year after this story is set, he'll go to study aviation at Curtiss-Wright Technical Institute. Aviation is a passion all of the Du Pont children have. (Richard's personality here is completely fabricated. I just got done with a post-modern section in English Lit so I decided to try it out a bit. Richard is, more or less, me in male form. Take away the Bible-thumping sentiment, the gambling, and the aviation - I am Richard :D)

Alice du Pont Mills – One year younger than Blaine and Richard. In 1935, four years after this story is set, she'll marry James Paul Mills.

The almost imponderable joy of…: this is taken from Charlie McDonnell, of course! :) I love that boy.

Goodtime people: phrase used by James Baldwin about jazz musicians in his short story "Sonny's Blues".

The exceedingly strange sleeping scene (you'll recognize it when you read it): my short-lived and never to be replicated attempt at recreating an experience in a post-modernist style of writing. Thank you, Jonathan Safran Foer.

Shadow man: Doctor Facilier from _The Princess and the Frog_. I'm actually not even sure if they really do call voodoo people the shadow man in the south.

Rooney: …Afraid I can't actually illuminate this one :) It would give the plot away! Ten million points to whoever can puzzle out what Rooney is in reference to!

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><p><em>Strangers in the Night<em> by Frank Sinatra

_Strangers in the night exchanging glances_

_Wandering in the night, what were the chances_

_We'd be sharing love before the night was through?_

_Something in your eyes was so inviting_

_Something in your smile was so exciting_

_Something in my heart told me I must have you_

_Strangers in the night_

_Two lonely people_

_We were strangers in the night_

_Up to the moment when we said our first hello_

_Little did we know_

_Love was just a glance away_

_A warm, embracing dance away_

_And ever since that night we've been together_

_Lovers at first sight in love forever_

_It turned out so right for strangers in the night_

_Love was just a glace away_

_A warm embracing dance away_

_Ever since that night we've been together_

_Lovers at first sight in love forever_

_It turned out so right for strangers in the night_

_December 19, 1931_

"You're hiding." The sharp, accusatory words leave Madeline Anderson's lips and reach my ears not a moment later. My mother's voice is unmistakable.

I'm currently lounging in a window seat of our Upper East Side residence. I absolutely loathe the room I am in –rather, I loathe the fact that I actually might love it. Frilly lace curtains frame the open windows so that the sharp winter breeze blows through and makes the curtains billow directly into my face. It is wallpapered with a soft white color that looks dull in the winter lighting, and my mother specifically ordered a fleur-de-lis border that looks charmingly out of place during this season. This is the room in which Madeline retreats with her group of friends to twitter away for hours about this person who had been "working late" or that person who seemed to not be working at all. I like to call it the Tea and Cakes Room, because that seems to be what the ladies subsist off of during their hours in here.

However dull the room looks in this moment, I know that at the right time of the day in the springtime, the sun filters in perfectly so that I don't even need to turn on a lamp. It would warm the cushions of my window seat and I would roll up my sleeves and unbutton the top few buttons of my shirt so that the sun could warm my skin. The image is easy to conjure when I close my eyes, but when I open them it is a very different picture that actually awaits my gaze. I'm done up in layers, with a scarf to protect neck from the frigid air. Falling snow gathers just inside the window, where it is propped open. Wind blows through the open window and brings color to my cheeks and the tip of my nose, making them numb. I like it when this happens, because when I close the window and step into the hall, I know I will be able to feel warmth filling them again.

I don't answer my mother immediately. I don't even turn to face away from my window, through which I can see bundled couples strolling hand in hand through Central Park, which is blanketed in a soft layer of bright snow.

"I can't say that I'm surprised," Madeline continues. "After all, you've been successful so far. You can only avoid these things for so long. If you could just…change your mind –"

"I didn't make up my mind in the first place," I interrupt abruptly.

"I thought being in such a pathetic state meant that you had refused to accompany your father and I – not to mention the rest of polite society – to the beach houses this week."

"That is _not_ what I meant, and you know that, Mother," I say. I snap the window shut and finally turn to face my mother. "I was referencing what _you_ were referencing, which has nothing to do with your fancy Christmas sabbatical in Florida."

Madeline doesn't speak for an uncomfortable stretch of abnormally long seconds. What she does say is no less or more than what I expect: "You'll be coming with your father and I, then? The Du Pont family is coming down from their home in Delaware to meet us. It's important to keep up connections with friends such as them, Blaine. You know that." I roll my eyes at the use of the words _friends_. It seems a bit of a strange choice in words to me, since in the same breath she claims that the connections for import's sake only. "I've been exchanging letters with Mary. She says that Alice will be there. She's such a lovely girl, Blaine."

"Not interested," I say, returning my gaze to the window. "She's completely infatuated with that Mills fellow." Even if Alice hadn't been infatuated with the Mills boy, I still would not have been interested.

"Well, Richard will be there as well, perhaps even Felix. Mary gave a glowing report about him. He just graduated from Princeton the year before last, you know. Perhaps you can talk to him about getting a higher education…"

"The Du Pont brothers are obsessed with airplanes," I say, trying not to roll my eyes. "It's all they talk about, and I don't know the first thing about aviation." That is true enough, but I actually quite like Richard. He's an easy person to get along with, if a bit tiring. We all but grew up together. He's the closest thing I have to a brother, but my mother wouldn't know that.

"Fine. You don't like the Du Pont boys. At least you won't be getting any ideas then," she says tightly. A swell of rage rises within me, and I have to struggle to retain a neutral expression. Behind her backhanded question is a cutting edge that lodges deep in a place too-near to my heart, making it shrink back within my chest cavity.

"I'll come to Florida for Christmas," I say shortly.

"Fabulous." She leaves, just like that. What irks me is that she knew I was coming all along. We do the same thing every year. The old money in New England leaves the snowy frigid north for several weeks in the dead of winter in favor of a string of beach houses on the Florida coast. It's like an archipelago of wealthy families and their wealthy children, schmoozing with one another, holding balls, dressing up every day in order to whisper behind their fans, and finding out new ways in which to intermarry. It's all slightly upsetting and I don't particularly enjoy it. That is not to mention my mother hauling over every single eligible bachelorette just for me to politely dismiss her.

The past couple years have been getting worse and worse. When I was seventeen, in 1928, people began to say that I was picky. They laughed but dismissed it. I was waiting for the right girl, they said, someone special. The next year, our annual trip to Florida came just more than two months after that fateful October. My father wasn't stupid. There had been signs that others were too foolish to see. He sold our stock about two weeks before Black Thursday. They had been bought in an instant. Other families had not been so lucky.

When we went to Florida two short months after that, many middling families were in a scramble. They needed stability. They needed to marry their daughters into wealthy families to assure their own lasting well-being. Turning down marriage arrangement after marriage arrangement that had tried to be made for me was no longer an endearing picky quality. It was suspicious. People began whispering that perhaps I wasn't simply waiting for the right girl. Perhaps I wasn't simply a snob apt to turn my nose up at anyone not level with myself in society. Perhaps I wasn't looking for a wife at all. Why would that be, they wanted to know.

Each time I backed away from a potential wife, I merely confirmed what everyone thought they already knew. I never had to say anything out loud. Besides, it isn't something that one speaks about, at least not someone like me. Manhattan pays reporters to detail every aspect of our lives in the papers. I am sure that the day we leave there will be an article running about how the New York Andersons have escaped on a retreat with the prestigious Delaware Du Pont's and the rest of their society of old money. They will point out how the Vanderbilt's have once again been left in New England as further proof of their slow downfall from prestige. If I were to confirm what people already suspect, the Andersons' would be the next Vanderbilt family. My father would do anything to prevent that.

I've never confessed anything to my parents. I've never confessed anything to _anyone_. It doesn't matter. That horse was shot in the mouth when our manservant found Teddy Holland climbing down from the second floor window…out of my room. It had been late fall in 1929. His father had just killed himself after losing almost all of his family's money. Teddy had just needed someone to listen to him – someone to comfort him. That excuse might have even flown had we not both had extremely incriminating and freshly made marks on our necks.

After the incident with Teddy, my parents had tried even harder to quell this 'rebellion', or so they phrased it. They think I've decided to fabricate an interest in men to avoid the committal that accompanies marriage. It sounds like a bad joke, doesn't it? Unfortunately, it's my reality. It's all I have to look forward to.

_December 23, 1931_

The ride down to Florida is long and bumpy. Father and Mother sit in the two front seats, whilst I get the almost imponderable joy of riding in back with the luggage. Father doesn't turn off the car radio almost the entire time. We'd gotten one of the first ones, hot off the production line, at a friend's-and-family discount price from Paul and Joseph Galvin themselves. Father had insisted on giving their new brand, Motorola, a generous donation that actually amounted to three times what we would have had to pay had we know known the Galvin brothers at all.

I must have listened through "Out of Nowhere" two dozen times. Father is obsessed with this new musician, Bing Crosby, and he actively searches the stations for him. Of course, when one of the stations announces their intention to "mix it up with Jazz Hour", and started to play Louis Armstrong, Father immediately changes it, which is wholly typical of him. "We don't need any of those goodtime people giving our son any ideas," he says. "It's bad enough that he reads that Edith Wharton woman."

"Edith Wharton is a genius," I say dully. I have actually packed _The Age of Innocence_ in my luggage. I've read it before but I find the social commentary about marrying someone as society dictates you to especially poignant of late.

"She's a cancer in the body of polite society," my father says. He effectively ends the conversation.

The entire trip proceeds in such a manner, and I'm actually grateful when I see the beach houses. Silently, I carry the luggage to our house and then immediately set out for the beach.

When we had stopped in Virginia, I had changed into a short-sleeved shirt, but the air here is so warm, even in the dead of winter, that I now shed even that, and cast it beside me into the sand. All that remains is a thin undershirt and tan slacks, for I took my shoes off back at the house. Sighing in relief – for I am alone finally…not one other person is on the beach – I lay back on the sand and close my eyes.

…Voices. Fizz the sound of waves in the sand. Laughter. Limbs. Heavy – encased in syrup – can't move. Sun like warm breaths across…too hot. Skin. Comfort. No – struggle. Mind sharpens. Eyelids flutter. Waken.

It is only when I truly wake up that I realize I have fallen asleep, as is common when you are truly tired, down to your bones. I feel horrible – sticky, sluggish, sweaty, and mushy, as if somehow the sun has taken all the strength out of my limbs. My skin aches like it is straining to cover my body, and there are now dozens of other people up and down the beach.

The only ones in my vicinity are two men, leaning close together. From the stretches of words that reach my ears, I gather that they are arguing.

"You…this when…up…your grand…task, and you'd bett…" The bigger man waves his arms around as he speaks. I'm not actively trying to listen in, but they are so close, and they're talking so loud.

"What if…that Pat could…tell Grandfath…" The other man sounds young, though his frame is strong, which makes him seem younger than his presence alone would have. I figure that he can't be older than me.

"…You'll do…proud…any arguments."

The bigger man – the older, I assume – leaves, giving the younger one a poke on the chest as his farewell. Even the younger's call of, "Uncle Liam," doesn't halt his retreat. He stares after his uncle for a minute before spinning around. His gaze fixes on me and I realize that I'm staring. I try to look away but I don't manage it before he speaks. "Whatta you lookin' at, Lobstah boy?"

The accent catches me off guard almost more than the fact that he is now addressing me. I don't say anything, but quickly gather up my shirt and make to leave. "You make a habit of listenin' in on othuh people's private convuhsations?"

"You came up to me." By this time, he is at my side. In spite of the heat, he's done up in all black, with long sleeves and a hat pulled low over his eyes.

Now, he reaches up and takes his hat off. When I straighten up and look at him, all I see are eyes that seem to be blue and green and gold and every color all at once. I'm transfixed. I don't walk away. I don't look away. I don't say anything. I can't. I just stand there staring.

His rainbow gaze does not waver. His eyebrows are drawn together slightly and his lips are pursed. The fierce expression looks out of place. He has a kind face, I think, and it would just look that much more handsome if he was smiling. Suddenly, absurdly, I want to be the one who puts a smile there.

As if he is reading my mind – is he reading my mind? – his forehead relaxes from its drawn up position. His lips also relax, and a smile – smaller than the one in my brief fantasy – replaces the look of tight suspicion. His current expression puts me in the mind that he knows something about me that even I don't. Suddenly, I feel quite naked.

"You wuh sleepin'," he says, lips still curved in a half-smile.

"I, uhm…woke up," I say. Stupid.

He raises his eyebrows. He obviously thinks I'm stupid, too. "Back in town. Nettie's stoah sells sunbuhn ointment that wuhks befo' rit stahts to hurt. I'd go now if I wuh you. Tell her you's one of Papa Rooney's. She'll give ya half off."

"Uh, uh, uh." It's all I can say and I suddenly wonder if he's some sort of shadow man – you never know down here in the South – who has put a stupidity spell on me. I usually pride myself on being rather well-spoken. His smile grows a little wider. With a wink that seems to awaken a few living things in my stomach – things with an impressive wingspan – he puts his hat back on and walks away.

My jaw is quite literally agape as I watch him walk away. I've never seen him before, which means he is not here regularly. However, he knew about Nettie's, which I've never heard of despite being here twenty times, so he could be a local. But no, the Boston accent effectively rules out that possibility.

"Who are you?" The question rips away from my throat before I can help it and I'm immediately mortified. The man doesn't turn back, but I see his head tip back, as if he's chuckling, and one hand lifts in a small wave. I could go after him. I don't. I could call out to him again. I don't. I could inquire about him with someone else – Mrs. Du Pont seems to know everybody's business. But I know that I won't. I've never believed in fate before now, but suddenly I have the feeling that I'll see that man again.

_December 24, 1931_

It's Christmas Eve, and the beaches are buzzing. Yesterday, I went to Nettie's, as the young man with rainbow eyes had suggested, and I'd said what he'd told me to. What had happened next was exceedingly strange:

_I grabbed the sunburn ointment ("Makes the hurt go so all you're left with is that summertime glow!") and went up to the counter. Nettie was a middle-aged woman with hair already grey. With a tight smile she informed me of the price._

_ I cast my gaze around and leaned closer to her. I wasn't sure what made me do this, but I had the feeling that Papa Rooney wasn't a name that should be tossed around freely. "I'm here with Papa Rooney," I said, effectively hiding my surprise when her eyes opened saucer-wide. "I…I believe we have an arrangement."_

_ "O-of course!" she said. Her tan face had paled and her hand shook as she rewrote the new amount on me receipt. "Of course. Mister Rooney's…yes. It's…good to see you boys back in town."_

_ Quelling the thrill that went through my stomach, I nodded at her and left. I only let out my sigh of relief when I had turned the corner. What I'd done was stupid. I should have just paid the full amount. I'd gambled both that Papa Rooney was in Florida and that he'd made an arrangement with her. They had seemed like logical assumptions at the time, but seeing the way her face paled and her eyes grew wary…I didn't desire to dwell on what the other side of my gambling coin would have been._

I stare out of the window of our house at the beach outside. Families sit together on the sand, laughing and engaging in general merriment. It's a private beach, so the only ones here are those who have vacation homes on the beachfront. That doesn't by any account mean that there aren't many people here. The Anderson family is small, but many of the others aren't. The Du Pont's alone have at least six proliferous branches, one of which my family has an in with.

As if my ears are burning, I hear a knock at the door. "Blaine?" It's Richard, the younger of the two Du Pont boys and the same age as me. I turn around and he's beaming so hugely that I can't help but smile. I really am platonically fond of the man. He can talk for hours, but it generally isn't about anything – aviation, in my opinion, is a nothing, since I don't know the first thing about it therefore cannot fathom the lingo. He amuses me to no end though.

"Richard," I say, standing up and offering him my hand, which he forgoes for giving me a hug and a hearty pat on the back. If my father had seen the action, he might have collapsed into sudden cardiac arrest. "How are you?"

"Good, old chap! Quite well!" Richard says loudly. "Listen, Felix and I are going to see about a blind tiger." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully, leans forward on his elbow, and grins at me conspiratorially. "After that car ride down, we could use a little 100-proof coffee. Care to join?"

I let out a chuckle. "Richie, it's not even noon."

"We'll get lunch first," he says with a grin.

"Well, I'll come to lunch, but I think I'll pass on…the coffee." The corner of my mouth quirks upward in a smile. "How long will you boys be there? Maybe I'll hop on down tonight."

"They have a billiard table?" Richard asks rhetorically. "Card game going? Felix will spend the entire vacation there."

"Goodness, I hope not," I say with a chuckle. I take a quick glance in the mirror. When I'm not in New York, I get to dress relatively casually. This means black fitted slacks, leather shoes, and a buttoned shirt with rolled-up sleeves. In other words, the Anderson family doesn't do casual. Fortunately for me, the Du Pont family doesn't either, and Richard is dressed in a similar manner. "He'll kill himself…or get arrested."

"Ah, I've seen officers in more than one speakeasy, boozing with the rest of us. One of these days, Blainers, people will wise up and stop the Bible-thumper mission to outlaw sweet escape."

"Do _not_ call me Blainers," I say as we walk down the street towards the downtown area. Despite my words, I'm smiling. I never realize how much I miss Richard until I see him again. I might even be just a little bit fond of his stupid nickname, which I know he won't stop saying no matter how many times I ask him not to. It's a twenty year old habit. "Where on Earth are we going, Richie?"

"This little Thai place in a nook downtown. I took a girl there once and she swears that it's the best food she'd ever had," Richard enthuses.

"_Thai_? What is _Thai_ food?"

Richard smirks. "You'll like it…or it'll make you sick!"

I shake my head and laugh reluctantly. "You're the gambler, not me, Richie."

"You don't get far if you gamble when you're in the air – unless far is that great big Something Other – so it's better to do all my gambling here on the ground."

"Thank God for that." I make a mental note never to let Richard fly me anywhere. "Try not to gamble your family's fortune away with Felix, alright? How do you know the password to get in, anyway? I wouldn't think the locals would want us visiting _Yankees_ to invade."

"That's something to ask Felix," Richard says absently, examining street signs for the correct road. "You'll need it if you come later, though. "It's 'Rooney'."

I skip a step and almost stumble. I have to grab onto Richard to keep from falling over, and I cling to him because suddenly, my limbs have started trembling slightly. "Rooney?" I repeat. "Why? Rooney…what does it mean?"

Richard shrugs. He is all but holding me up, and surveys me with worry. "I don't know, Blaine. The owner maybe? A patron? It could just be a random name so people don't get wise. Are you alright, Blainers?"

"Fine," I lie, trying to quell my racing heart. "I'm fine."

Forty minutes later, Richard and his brother Felix were bidding me goodbye and heading off for their appointment with a "blind tiger". Stuffed to the brim with exotic food and the startling password all but forgotten, I start teetering back toward the beachfront. Richard had been right, it _had_ been the best food I've ever had…however, I was getting the suspicion that it still might make me sick. I'm in a bit of a food-coma, which is unfortunate because I know that tomorrow, Anderson's, Du Pont's, Mills', Astor's, Roosevelt's and more will all gather for a blindingly extravagant Christmas dinner.

I don't hear the steps by my side that signify that someone has joined me. In fact, I only notice that I'm not alone when I look up from watching my feet and actually see the figure there. There's no black coat this time, but the hat remains and now he has sunglasses on, veiling his rainbow eyes. His long-sleeved white shirt is rolled up past his elbows, exposing lovely fair skin that could have come straight from a magazine ad.

"It's you," I say stupidly.

"Me," he confirms, and a smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "Ya went to Nettie's yestahday." It wasn't a question. He already knew that I had.

"Yes," I say anyway. "Y-you were right. She cut the price…more than half off actually."

What I can see of his eyebrows under his hat lift in mild surprise. "She must've liked the looka ya." He pauses, and if I don't known better, I could swear I see that upward lift of his lips twitch in amusement. "Who can blame her?"

My eyes open wide in surprise. Had just said what I think he said? Does he _mean_ what I think he means? Was it possible…? "Can you?" I ask the question before my brain manages to prevent me from it. It suddenly hits be that I might not even have a logical brain at all, for it escapes me far too often. Or if I do, this mystery man – Rainbow Eyes, I've been calling him in my head – puts it into temporary inactivity.

He doesn't look over at me, though I haven't taken my eyes off of him, and his steps don't miss a beat. "Maybe I'm not totally qualified to say," Rainbow Eyes says. He begins to scuff the toes of his dark, expensive looking shoes on the ground as he walks. "Aftuh all…all I seen'a ya was ya face smashed into the sand – you snoah, by the way. You do look a bit less lobstah red today, though. Mo' like an erasuh." Now, he looks up at me and smirks. "Baby pink, Baby."

Wondering whether that faint buzzing in my head was because of bees in my ears or because I was verging on unconsciousness, I finally turn away and take a deep breath. It sounds too vulnerable, even to my bee-filled ears. In the back of my mind, I recognize that he has completely avoided my question.

"Right," I say slowly, gradually shaking myself back into reality. "Uhm…I guess I never even introduced myself. How rude of me. I'm –"

"I know who ya ah," he interrupts, looking away and tilting his head up toward the clear blue sky. As he looks up, I take the opportunity to sneak a glance back in his direction. A pale expanse of throat stretches from the collar of his shirt up to his upstretched chin. I actually have to bite my lip, just in case my non-brain decides it has any more eloquent things to blurt. "Blaine Anduhson, of the Manhattan Anduhson family."

"H…how do you know that?" I ask quietly.

"I know what I need to know," he responds evasively. "Fah example…you just came back from lunch with the Du Pahnt brothuhs."

"That's something you need to know?" I ask, not sure whether I should be flattered or worried that I may have a stalker…a very, _very_ attractive stalker.

"No." It's only with that word and the conspiratorial smile that accompanies it that I realize he'd just made a joke, and I let out a relieved sigh of air. He has a strange, almost undetectable sense of humor, to be sure, but I find that I can appreciate it easily. "I wanted to find ya."

"Why?" I ask. He doesn't answer. Our feet have carried us without agenda, and we are now on the division between the sand of the beach and the street. In silent agreement, we stop walking and I face toward him.

He still doesn't answer me, but instead stares out across the ocean. Sensing that an answer isn't about to come, I change the subject. Once again, what I say mightn't have been the smartest or most subtle path to take. "You know I was with Richard and Felix, then," I say. "They're off to see about a blind tiger. I…I told them I might join them. I have to say…when they said that the password was 'Rooney'…I couldn't help but wonder." His head snapped away from the ocean. Though his dark sunglasses prevented me from seeing his eyes, I knew they were fixed on me.

"Don't wonduh," he said shortly.

"Is it your Rooney?" I persist.

"There's dozens of Rooney's in this state alone," he says sharply.

"Maybe I'll go," I continue. Judging by his former tone of voice, I'm beginning to push my luck. "I'm sure they're different here than they are in New York. Will I see you there?" A sane person would have realized that those words sounded an awful lot like admittance to wanting to see him again. The thing is…I do want to see him again, and even if I didn't I wouldn't have the sanity required to recognize that.

"Is that an invitation?" he asks, leaning closer to me.

"Perhaps." I don't lean away.

He smirks and leans back again. "Don't go to the blind tiguh," he says. "Just…don't."

I gape at him like a fish suddenly thrown out of water. Who is he to tell me what to do? I haven't even known the man a day. Yet, there is an unmistakable yet unidentifiable mysterious air about him that I can't help but take seriously. "I'll see ya again, Blaine Anduhson." He lifts up his sunglasses for a moment…just long enough for a wink and a brief glimpse of his rainbow eyes.

"Wait," I call, before he makes it two steps. "Who are you? You never told me your name."

"It isn't impahtant," he tells me. "But…about why I needed to find ya." He dips his hand briefly into his pocket and pulls out a small present, complete with wrapping paper and a glittering green ribbon. "Merry Christmas, Blaine Anduhson." He passes me the small box, which I take with numb hands. As he hands it off to me, his fingers draw lightly down the length of my hand in a way that I am absolutely sure isn't accidental.

"Merry Christmas," I whisper as he turns and walks back toward town, hands in his pockets. I take a steadying breath and I realize that I've moved to hold the small box against the left side of my chest – right above my heart. Steeling myself, I dip behind some of the palms on the beach and simply look at the neat, wrapped box for a few moments. Gathering my courage before it flees, I pull on the ribbon that ties the whole assemblage together.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yay, cliffhanger! :D So, I worked pretty hard on this and did an almost embarrassing amount of research so I'd like to hear all of your thoughts! What I'm really curious about is whether anyone has a handle on Kurt. Any ideas about his story? I've tried to veil him in a bit of mystery - Blaine's certainly puzzled - but at times I think I've made him too transparent. Any ideas? I'll give you one hint: he's a Southie :) Also, does anyone have an idea about what Rooney might be a reference to? :) I wait with anticipation for your thoughts! (Also, this has been my first shot ever at writing in present tense. I hope it wasn't too awful! "^^)_

_Thanks for reading! This should have two, possibly three chapters left! :3_


	2. Chapter 2

Whether he means for me to wait to open the small gift until Christmas or not, when I look back and see that he's no longer there, I immediately slide off the ribbon bow and gently undo the wrapping paper. It's in such a pristine state that someone with less money might want to use it again. I only feel that tearing the paper would have somehow destructed the gift's sanctity.

When the wrapping paper comes away, a small white box is exposed. With bated breath, I toss the paper in the nearest garbage can and stare down at the box. "What could be in you," I whisper to myself. After all, I hardly know the man who has given it to me so freely. I don't even know his name. Suddenly thinking that there might be a note inside indicating who he is, I hastily lift open the top. There, sitting on top of a small pile of fuzzy stuffing, sits a key.

Just a key. It is plain metal. It has an opening for a chain but no chain itself. It sits there with no accompaniment – no note – absolutely nothing else apart from the key itself. Feeling the anticlimax hit me, I let out a small sigh of impatience. I lift the key and shove it in my pocket before ripping out the stuffing, perfectly convinced that there must be something else there.

I don't find anything. It truly is just the key and nothing else. Nevertheless, I keep the box anyway, holding it tightly as I walk back to my temporary home. When I get there, I don't know whether I'm alone or not. Even this small beach house is large enough to keep me away from my parents for days at a time, for which I'm thankful.

I walk into a sitting room and put both box and key before me. A steal a glance at my surroundings to make sure there is truly no one to see me. I'm alone, so I covertly deprive a lamp of one of its pieces of silky ribbon, one large enough to circle around my neck with extra inches to spare. I thread the key onto it and tie it around my neck.

It might be strange, but I have a feeling that Rainbow Eyes doesn't do things that don't have purpose. My gut tells me that this key is important. He could have just given it to me plain, without the box, but he didn't.

I eye the little box. It's made of some sort of barely substantial white cardboard. "What secret do you have?" I ask it, feeling tremendously stupid that I feel so strongly about the mystery man that I've decided to talk to a box. "He gave you to me so you must have one."

About to give up, I run my fingers along the inside of the box. "That's not cardboard," I whisper, fingers pausing on one side. It's fabric. It has the exact same look as the texture and color of the cardboard, but it feels different.

Heart beginning to race and fingers trembling, I try to pry away the fabric. It comes away with a bit of effort, and a small slip of paper emerges from between the cardboard and where the fabric had been a moment before. I struggle to pick it up in my shaking fingers, but finally manage it.

_2221 Lantern Lane, Naples_

I look at the paper blankly. I flip it forwards and backwards but this time there is truly nothing else. Lantern Lane, Naples. Well, I'm already in Naples, at the north end where the Vanderbilt Beaches are, which is ironic in itself. I've never heard of Lantern Lane…perhaps someone at Richard and Felix's blind tiger will know something about where it is.

It couldn't be his address, could it? The possibility frightens me. What else could he possibly want to achieve though, giving me a key and an address? How could he _possibly_ know that I am…who I am? How could he possibly know that I think he's the most perfect person I've ever seen, and that the sound of his voice sends a slight thrill throughout me? He can't. He can't possibly know those things.

It's true, we might have flirted. But honest to God, _Richard_ flirts with me and it's just the way he is. It doesn't mean anything. Perhaps it isn't a key to a house at all, let alone his house. Maybe he has zero ulterior motives.

The question takes my mind away for the majority of the afternoon as I pace back and forth, debating whether or not it's to a house, and whether or not I should actually go. In the end, at about five in the afternoon, I have a stroke of brilliance and walk into town where I can hail a taxicab. They're _paid_ to know where things are, and it's my best bet.

"Lantern Lane," I say to the driver. "It's here in Naples."

He starts driving, and I wring my hands nervously. The address is in my suit pocket – I've changed outfits – and the key is still on the silk ribbon around my neck. I debate telling the driver to turn around throughout the entire ride, until we're actually on Lantern Lane.

"This is it."

I sit up straighter. "This is…okay. This is it." I see the driver giving me a strange look through the mirror but I don't acknowledge it. "Uh…drive me to 2221 please." We pass palm tree after palm tree. The street is the perfect vision of Florida beauty, like how people who have never been to Florida imagine it.

The driver stops outside of a building and indicates that it's the one I want. I don't dare open the door, so I look out of the window. The house is normal enough apart from the fact that it's quite obvious no one lives there. There are no cars in the driveway, though there is one parked outside against the curb. There are no lights on and through the windows, which are large to allow in copious amounts of light, I can see covers on the furniture.

"No one lives here," I say.

"Not my problem," the driver responds with a shrug. "What do you want to do, boss?"

I sigh and lean back, defeated. "Just take me back. Drop me off in town, at the coffee shop. I have the money." The driver just shakes his head and turns around. Why would Rainbow Eyes give me a key to ensnare my attention and an address that leads to nowhere and means nothing? With a dull sinking feeling, I realize that I'm disappointed he doesn't live at the Lantern Lane address, and that makes me feel sicker than anything else has yet.

By the time I get dropped off at the coffee shop, my cab fare is too high and I want nothing more than to find Richard and Felix so I can get a drink. I untie my bowtie as I walk. I've given up on propriety and I just pray my parents won't see me before I get inside.

In the shop's front façade, I don't even bother with initial small talk. I say "Rooney", the man in front of me gives me a pitying look, and he leads me to the backroom which has a secret staircase that leads down to the bar.

I think that my mother would suffer cardiac arrest if she knew I went to speakeasies. She and her group of lady friends had initially been prohibitionists, when they thought that it would cut crime in the cities and make New York a safer place to raise their privileged families. Prohibition hadn't worked out the way anyone wanted it to. Predictably, that wasn't something Madeline Anderson was ready to admit.

Jazz creates the room's mood, drifting from a live band. Everyone has a glass in their hand, and seems happier than anyone else who had been out on the street.

"Blaine!" Richard calls me from the far end of the room. By the time I reach him, he has an extra glass of dark liquid and he shoves it into my hand. "Drink up, my friend!"

His cheeks are red, and I can tell that he's already been down here far too long. I plan on staying for a non-substantial amount of time. Only enough to loosen up and get these worries off of my mind, and then I'll take Richard and haul him home.

I take a healthy gulp and almost spit it back out again. "Dear God, what is this? It tastes like some backwater hillbilly's bathtub gin."

Richard laughs loudly and motions for another. "We're practically in the Caribbean, Blainers, and we're right on the coast. Ships pull right into the harbor and stock up."

Begrudgingly impressed with its potency, I take another smaller sip. "Where's Felix?" Richard nods to a craps table where his brother sits, hardly looking drunk at all. "Has he…?"

"Nope," Richard answers before I finish. "I'll _never_ understand some people." This draws a laugh from me, and I down the rest of my drink. With Richard and the thrill of illegality to pass the time, I forget about Lantern Lane. I forget about the key around my neck. I forget about Rainbow Eyes and the fact that he told me not to come here.

When I next look at my pocket watch, it's almost nine. "Shit," I curse, pocketing the watch once more. "I've been gone all day. My parents…"

"Fine, fine," Richard slurs, sliding off of his stool and needing my arm to steady him.

"God, it'll be a miracle if we make it back without being arrested," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. For the first time, I turn around to the rest of the room, and my jaw drops.

Spread out along one wall is a row of intimidating looking men who doubtlessly belong to the same group. People look at them with a gaze of mixed reverence and intimidation. The man in the middle is most assuredly their leader. He's in his sixties with grey hair, but he remains strongly built even in his old age. The men around him are of different ages but my eye drifts to the one who looks the youngest.

It's Rainbow Eyes, lounging back in a chair with a lazy smile on his face. Now he wears a dark grey shirt under a black suit jacket, black pants, and shiny leather shoes. His head is devoid of hat and glasses, so I see the combined effect of his pale skin, soft hair, and rainbow eyes.

Hauling Richard into my grasp, I drag him over to the group, for they sit between us and our exit. As I get closer, I can hear Rainbow Eyes. He's talking to a woman who looks questionable, in my opinion. If this were a regular speakeasy, she might be in an evening dress, or be the wife or some prestigious society man. Since this is a blind tiger, I doubt her morality.

The sight sinks my heart. I don't know why it was hopeful in the first place. After all, the chance that both he and I could be…no, it wasn't likely.

"We go wiv each over everywheh," I hear him say, and my jaw drops. It's a different accent, one from somewhere in Britain – I never could tell the difference. It sounds natural, just as natural as his Boston accent. "I guess it's jus' somefing families do, eh?"

"How'd you get to be one of Rooney's boys?" the woman asks. "Arms in different countries? Is he that powerful? I mean, I know that west Florida is mostly Capo–"

"Ah, we don' talk abou' him," Rainbow Eyes says, flashing a stunning smile. "All tha' matters is…" He fades off, and his eyes fix on me.

Realizing that I've stopped walking and Richard is falling asleep on my shoulder as I stand, I snap to attention and begin to walk again. Most of Rainbow Eyes' crowd continues about their business, but I can't help it when my eyes drift over to the older man in the center. He's quiet, and he watches me leave.

"Don' go anywhere," Rainbow Eyes says to the woman. I don't look back but I hear him follow me up the stairs and out of the store. I walk a few more steps on the sidewalk, Richard muttering nonsensically, before stopping and turning around.

For some reason that I don't care to admit to, I'm mad at him. I fix Rainbow Eyes with a strange, considering gaze. There are a million questions in my head but I settle for a statement instead. "You lied."

"How'd I do that?" he asks. His accent, I notice, is Bostonian once more.

"I thought you were British," I say almost bitterly, hauling Richard more upright as he begins to slip. It's with pity toward myself that I notice I sound like a nagging wife.

He grins dryly and scoffs. "I can be…whatevuh people want me to be – whatevuh I need to be. South African, British, Califahnian, I've been 'em all."

I'm growing more confused by the second. "Why?"

"_Why_ do ya need to know?"

"Because…"

"_Because why_?"

"Because I'm interested in you," I burst out. "I can't figure you out. I feel like I should know you but I hardly do. I don't even know your name but you find me and give me gifts that make no sense."

His expression remains collected, and I cannot read what's going on behind his eyes. "I wish I didn't have to give to ya," he says finally. He takes in a big sigh. "I'm not the only one who don't make sense, Blaine Anduhson. As for bein' intuhrested," he squeezes his eyes closed, "don't be."

"What are you?" I persist. I almost forget that I'm holding up Richard, but since he's currently asleep and half-drooling on my shoulder, I doubt he'll remember this conversation come the morning.

"Somethin' you's bettuh off stayin' away from," he says pointedly. "Why'd ya have to come heah? I told ya not to."

I shrug with my one free shoulder. "I'm just persistent, I guess." I have no idea why I say these things that can be construed as nothing but advances toward his attention, but I say them nonetheless.

"I hope you'll let me do my jawb," he says, "and leave well enough alone. D'you think I'm joking?" I shake my head to indicate a silent no. "No…" Suddenly he lets out a completely unexpected sound of agitation and paces a few strides back and forward before pointing an accusatory finger right in my face. "I hope ya never have to use what I gave ya," he says. "Lahd knows _why_ I even gave it to ya. Says somethin' about _me_, going _sawft_."

"I'm…confused," I say slowly.

I could see a procession of emotions go through his face but I knew not what one of them was or meant. "Three things," he says, ticking them off on his fingers. "One, we shoulda nevah met. Two, we did and you got an annoying habit of tuhning up _everywheh_ I go. Three, if ya have to, you'll know how to use the thing I gave ya. Don't lose it. Don't try to find me. Stop thinking about me. _Stop_ thinking about who I am."

"That was at least five things," I say breathlessly. The corner of his mouth twitches but he doesn't allow himself to smile. Once I have the courage, I say the last thing I want to: "I'll stop."

"Good." His voice is quiet, and my personal interpretation wants to think that he does not actually think it's good at all. He turns to walk back into the store.

I still want to say a million things. I want to ask if that older man was Rooney, and who he was. I wanted to ask if that really was his family. I wanted to ask him what the address was for. I wanted to ask if he was only Bostonian for me because I wanted him to be, as he put it. I wanted to ask why people in the speakeasy were either frightened or enamored by him. I wanted to ask him if he actually liked that girl. However, I settled on one final question – the most important one. "What's your name?"

He stops walking away, and is silent for a few long seconds. "Ya don't need to know th–"

"I want to," I interrupt.

He still doesn't turn. "M-Mahshall."

I've been lied to enough to be able to recognize the sound of one, even from someone I don't know. "That isn't your name. What is it, really?"

I see his back rise and fall in a deep breath. When he speaks, his voice is exponentially quieter. "It's Kurt," he says in a whisper. He doesn't give me a chance to reply before walking briskly – almost jogging – back indoors.

"Kurt," I whisper to the night air. He was telling the truth. The word sounds right on my tongue and I want to repeat it again.

"_Kuhurgsmff_," mumbles Richard, effectively crushing the desire to do so.

"Come on big guy," I say, pushing him so he's more on his feet and less on me. "We're going home."

* * *

><p><em>AN: There we go, the mystery continues in part two of three :) Happy Holidays! Leave a quick review and let me know what you think! ^^_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Alright, here's the final chapter of this story! It's so weird - I was planning for this to be on New Year's Eve since before I started writing the story, and I only just realized that I'm actually publishing it on New Year's Eve! How perfect is that?_

_There's some slang in this chapter, like what Uncle Liam calls Kurt for example, that didn't actually etymologically develop until the mid-30s so sorry about that inaccuracy, but they were too perfect not to use! This chapter ties together the mystery, finally!_

_I'm not sure if it's common knowledge or not so I thought I'd just clarify that the Volstead Acts are the laws that defined United States Prohibition :) Also, a lot of the names mentioned in passing (James Mills, Louise Astor and her Russian fiance Mdivani, Lila Vanderbilt, the Du Pont siblings themselves, and Frank and Dobo) were all real people. I chose them and this year - winter 1931 - specially because it's a year and season when all of their timelines coincide, and can be manipulated together. Also, it leads in perfectly to a huge event that took place in New York early in 1932 - I'd be SO impressed if anyone can guess! :D_

_This chapter is the longest by far, so go make some cocoa or tea, snuggle under a blanket, and enjoy!_

* * *

><p><em>December 31, 1931<em>

The next days go by without a sign of the mystery man – Kurt – and, per his request, I don't try to find him. As a consequence, I have a lot of time to ponder the ridiculousness of my situation. It's been just over a week since I arrived at Florida and it seems like more exciting events have happened over it then have happened to me in my entire life. I realize the pathetic nature of this situation, and it's just one more thing to think about.

The only way I can convince myself that I'm not certifiably crazy is by repeating over and over that I can't begin to explain why I'm acting the way I act, or why I feel the way I feel. This desire to see Kurt again is one that I've never felt before, and I can't just explain it away. It's the short amount of time that makes these feelings ridiculous but in the end, I figure that it's also the thing that makes them significantly life-altering.

Despite this resolution that I can't begin to explain why things are in the current state that they are, I can't help trying. By New Year's Eve, I've come to the decision that I'll simply go home feeling like this – like I've left something behind.

I get dressed for the New Year's Eve Gala in the best outfit I've brought. It probably costs more than the life savings of a dozen people who live down here, and it's completely stifling. Mentally, I prepare myself for a night of dancing with people whom I care nothing about and feel nothing for. It's the same every year.

"Blaine, we're leaving." My mother's crisp voice reminds me that I should probably expect her to ask which of the women present I prefer at least four times throughout the course of the night. It's the same every year.

"Coming," I call, straightening my bowtie and descending the stairs. My mother and father are already at the door, and my father taps his fingers against the frame impatiently, even though I'm certain we'll be one of the first people there.

I am, of course, correct. It's already dark, and the main house outside of which the Gala is held is lit up with fairy lights. The lights extend along the beams surrounding the large dance floor, in an imitation of Grecian architecture. Thin, intricate columns extend to the ground around the edge, and just beyond that are a few stairs that led onto plush grass, which is dotted with plants, flower beds, the occasional pond, and many secluded alcoves. I've never visited the last one myself.

The DuPont family is already there when we arrive, as well as a handful of others. Gratefully, I rush over to Richard and his siblings while my parents exchange formalities with the Roosevelts.

Richard is leaning against a column, a glass of something amber in his hand, and Felix and Alice sit next to one another on a stone bench. "Alice," I greet the girl – it's hard to think of her as a woman, even though she is, when we once shared the same crib space. I take her outstretched hand and place my lips against it gently. "Richard…what is _that_?"

"Sparkling apple juice," he says glumly, swirling around what I had thought was alcohol and making all of us laugh. "Our parents are such _squares_."

"Push over, Felix," Alice tells her other brother, shoving him sharply with her hip. Her pains to make room on the bench for one more makes me smile. Even if she did suit my preferences, I don't think I could ever take an interest in Alice, as my mother wants. It would be far too much like incest. "Sit, Blaine!"

"You didn't push over for _me_," Richard complains, swilling around his drink again. He's probably pretending that it's something more potent.

Swiftly, Alice snatches the glass from his hand and downs the whole thing in one gulp, making both her brothers and I gape. "Well Richard, _you_ aren't Blaine," she says, squeezing my shoulder as I sit next to her. She turns toward me. "Speaking of – I heard you went with my stupid brothers to that complete dive a few days ago." She snickers. "You must have dropped Richie off at the door instead of seeing him in. The next morning I went down to the kitchen and he was lying on the floor, quite prostrate but for his cheek smashed into the ground and his posterior sticking into the air."

"What would I have given to see _that_," I say, grinning at my friend wickedly.

Richard flushes to the roots of his hair, but I know that he knows it's all in good fun. "If you cretins are done mocking me, I have some business to attend to." I follow his gaze across the outdoor dance patio, which has gotten surprisingly full in the last few minutes. "She's deliciously redheaded, and her escort seems to have absconded in favor of a _fake _drink." He waggles his eyebrows at the rest of us and saunters off.

"He's a piece of work," Felix says, watching his brother walk away. His eyes twinkle conspiratorially. "I'm sure it has something to do with compensation. I think our friend Sigmund Freud would have a thing or two to say about it." I have a chuckle at Richard's expense, and I can hear Alice trying to stifle her own amusement. "I, on the other hand, wish only to brush up on my ballroom dancing." He stands and dips into a shallow bow to excuse himself.

Alice and I sit for a few moments in a silence that is comfortable should it be short, but has potential to get awkward. "How's James?" I inquire, concerning the Mills boy that she's enamored with and who is thus the basis of every Alice-excuse I give my mother.

She smiles slowly and ducks her head. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asks quietly, scooting closer to me.

"Always," I reply, intrigued in spite of myself. She reaches to tug on her necklace, and from the neckline of her dress rises a small ring on a chain. "Is that…?"

"Mhmm," she murmurs, handing it to me so that I can examine it. I look at her face and it's glowing. Is that what it looks like…being in love? With a misplaced sinking feeling, I wonder if I'll ever get that look on my own face. Unbidden, the image of Kurt rises to my mind. Its presence there unnerves me, so I try to distract myself. "James gave it to me just a few days ago, when we first got here." She beams at me. "Of course, we'll wait a few years. We want to keep it our secret for a while…so we'll always know that we have each other. Does that make sense? I'm afraid that being…in love makes me say strange things."

"It makes sense," I whisper, handing the ring back to her. "But you're only telling your secret to me?"

"Just you," she says, placing her hand over mine. She fiddles with my fingers, which is how I know that she has something else weighing in on her mind. Alice gets restless when she has something important to say. "I just wanted you to be the first to know." She shrugs. "I don't know, Blaine. I always thought, with both of our parents pushing so hard for…_us_ to happen…if neither of us ever found anyone..." She chuckled breathlessly and shook her head. "I don't know what I'm trying to say. People could always come and go and break my heart, but you would be a constant. You would still always be there for me. I suppose I figured that if nothing like this got in the way, it was inevitable that you and I would be together."

I smile as she finishes speaking, her sudden speech shocking even me. It's all I can do to keep from chuckling, and I only keep it together with the thought that Alice might think I was mocking her if I didn't. It's inexplicably funny to me, because no one knows what I know about myself. However…there are those rumors.

"What about what other people say?" I ask, suddenly curious as to what it is exactly that they do say. As the root of the rumors, I've always been a bit shielded from them. "I know that people whisper rumors about me, Alice. You would still believe those things, when they say what they do?"

Alice had been examining my reaction, but now she looks away. "E-even if they were true…you couldn't a-act on them, not with people knowing. I might have thought about it. I might've thought that you'd need me…especially if any of it were true."

A feel a deep pang in my heart, and I'm almost speechless that Alice would even consider sacrificing love to be a cover for my secret. "Do you believe them?" The fact that she admitted to thinking about it confirms that question but I want to hear her say it.

"I think…that it's none of my or other people's business." She turns her head back to me, and speaks in a halting voice. "Louise Astor came down to see me before she got married to that slimy Mdivani fellow. We were walking through the park and she was just gossiping. I didn't mind it so much when she was talking about Russians and all the famous families her soon-to-be husband's family have married into. Then she brought up you, and she started saying things…horrible things."

I'm the one who breaks our eye contact. I can't stand the look in her eyes as she tells me this. "You didn't answer the question, Al."

"I pushed her and she fell into a duck pond," Alice bursts out, the words spilling from her like a rush of water. I feel the corner of my mouth quirk up in a smile. An absurd laugh bubbles up within me. I can't hold it in, and she joins in a moment later, leaning on me as she laughs and shakes her head. "I shouldn't be laughing. She was horrible."

"Then she deserved it," I justify.

"I suppose," Alice says, slightly out of breath from our sudden bout of laughter. She tucks the ring back into the front of her shirt.

"Alice," I say softly. I want to say something to her. She's given me this secret of hers, and she's proven that she is on my side. More than that, I've never said the words out loud, not even to myself. A part of me feels that it won't be true until I say it, which has prevented me from doing so until now, but a more sensible part of me knows that knowing it within the confines of my mind is what makes it real. "Why aren't you telling me whether you believe what they say or not?" Yet again, she doesn't answer. "Does everyone believe it, then? Alice…it's tr–"

"I kissed Lila Vanderbilt under a table two summers ago," Alice interrupts. "It was nice. We had snuck into her father's secret liquor drawer and afterward I got all tingly." She shrugs, laces her fingers through mine, and doesn't say anything else.

In spite of her silence, I know that we both know. I smile down at her and a weight seems to lift away from me. I don't want to ruin the moment by speaking, so I don't try to. A moment later, I see a familiar face among the crowd and I nudge Alice. "Your prince," I say, nodding to James.

She hops onto her feet and looks at me unsurely. "You're alright if I leave?"

"What do I look like, an infant?"

Her mouth twists into a smile. "You know what I mean. Are you sure you don't want one dance? We can waltz past your parents and I can slap your wandering hands away."

"Maybe later," I concede with a chuckle, waving her away toward her secret fiancé. After she's gone, I find that I don't quite know what to do with myself. If I stay here my mother will doubtlessly find me, a line of girls trailing behind her, and insist I dance with each one. Not keen to subject myself to that, I slide off of the bench and onto the dark grass, away from the twinkling fairy lights of the building and its pillars.

Sooner or later I know I'll have to return and both literally and figuratively face the music. Most people would rather do so be sooner than later. I however know that sooner also means it will be more prolonged, and so I plan on staying away for as long as possible. My wandering feet find a cobblestone path which winds through the grounds that surround the main house and its dance floor. I can hear the music and chatter of fancily-clad people, but their figures are just little smudges against a lit backdrop as I walk farther away.

I descend the stairs of a beach wall and sit at its base. Here, I can no longer see the main house, as it's hidden by the wall, nor can I hear the noise coming from it. All I can see is the softly crashing waves, and all I can hear is the fizzing of the sand as it's pulled back and forth by the water. I carefully perch myself on a large stone, trying not to ruin my expensive clothes. It's not imperative that they survive the night as pristine as the started it. If they're ruined, mother will have a brief one-sided argument with me before easily pulling together the money and ordering a new one. I'd simply rather not withstand the arduous task of standing for tailored measurements, picking out fabrics and colors I cannot tell the difference between, and going through the many fittings. It occurs to me that I am a wholly selfish being when it comes to snobbery.

The sound of voices from the wall above shocks me out of my daydream, and I freeze instinctively. What am I to do? Making my presence known would be the right thing to do, but it would also be awkward and unfathomably embarrassing. I rule that out at once. I could try to sneak around them, but if I'm caught I'll seem suspicious and they'll know I was eavesdropping. I rule that out almost as quickly. The only thing left is to pretend I'm not here at all, so I sink back as far as I can against the wall I'm sitting at the bottom of. If they have their conversation and leave, and I don't make a sound, they'll never know I was here. Both parties will be spared embarrassment, and I highly doubt that some lover's spat will mean anything at all to me.

As I see when the voices become distinguishable, I cannot be more wrong about that. I recognize one of the voices, and that alone would make their conversation enrapturing. "Why did you volunteer?" The other voice is a man's, and it doesn't hold the same accent that his companion's voice does. He carries the generic 'American' accent that could be from anywhere, possibly the west.

"_Why_ do ya need to know?" Kurt asks the exact same question with the exact same cadence that he had used when asking me the last time I saw him. That alone almost makes me giggle aloud, and I have to bite down on my knuckle to keep me from blowing my cover so early.

"Because," says the other in a tight whisper. "This is one family where secrets can get you killed, Kurt. Keep secrets from other people but don't keep them from me…don't keep them from this family. So I'll ask you one more time: why did you volunteer to come here tonight?"

Kurt is silent for a long stretch of time. "Because ya keep asking me things like this," he says finally. "You don't believe me when I say I'm heah to finish the _jawb_. What is it you want from me, Uncle Liam? An oath drawn in blood?" He lets out a sound that's caught between a sigh and a growl.

"No," the other man says quietly. "I'm worried about you. I'm worried about everyone, with all the shit that's been going on lately. It's inevitable, since the reason we came back here in the first place is because of what happened to Frank and Dobo. I don't know what's going on in the world anymore, Kurt."

"People ah just being people," Kurt replies flatly. "As they've always been. Men die and othahs come up wheh they used to be. Life is shit and then it's ovah. The end."

"You really think that?"

"Mmm. I really think that. Ya told me on the beach, the day we got heah, that this was my task and I'd bettuh not fuck it up…that I'd do the family proud, and ya didn't wanna heah no ahguments." Kurt pauses, presumably for breath though he doesn't speak for a prolonged time. "I'm doing it. No ahguments. It ain't that hahd."

"No, it isn't," the other man says. "Or it shouldn't be. What Papa told you was simple: these society idiots hold this Gala every year, and all you need to do is be here and plant the seeds. Once they're back in their New England mansions, they'll bring back the name Rooney and their ideas of what he can provide. It ought to be more personal, more valuable than what people see in Chicago. Now is the time, Kurt, while our rivals are weak. We might have just lost a leader, but so have they."

"Ya don't have to tell this to me," Kurt says. His tone is cool, and betrays no emotion. I, on the other hand, am not holding it together quite so well. My hands have begun to sweat intensely, and my heart is beating so furiously that I'm sure the pair can hear it, even from ten feet above me. "Like I said…easy."

"Will it be?" Kurt's companion asks. "Papa seemed concerned. He seemed to think that you were…getting emotional."

"A-about what?" For the first time, Kurt's speech falters.

"A person…a man. One of _them_… Kurt, tell me he was wrong." Kurt's Uncle Liam sighs. "Are you just playing a sick little game with him? Why can't you just quell this queer little _tendency_ you have and focus on what you need to focus on to stay out of trouble? You followed some spuzzed up good egg out of the speako a few days ago, and Papa Rooney told me that his eyes around town say that isn't the first time you've been around him."

"Now you's just flapping ya gums," Kurt says with an edge to his voice. "It ain't like that." Long moments pass and the other man doesn't speak. I almost think they've gone, but before I can move, Kurt speaks again, this time more frantically. "Say something!" he demands. His voice rises again and I can hear fabric on fabric that might indicate that he's shoved the other man. "_Say_ something."

"Ahh," Liam exhales. "You're saying it all. I hope you didn't volunteer to come here because he'll be here. Do your job. If you pull through, I won't doubt you again, kid."

One pair of footsteps starts and then fades. "I'm not a kid," Kurt calls after his back. "I'm not heah because of that, _and it ain't even like that_." When Kurt ceases calling after his uncle, I hear him breathing harshly for several moments. He mumbles a few things out loud, and after about five minutes of that I hear him walk away.

Even though he's now gone, I'm too shocked to move. What I just overheard was something I should not have ever been privy to, and I have little doubt that if anyone knew, it might just get me killed. I draw myself upright on trembling legs and clasp my hands together so their shaking isn't obvious. I brace myself against the wall and try to make sense of what I just heard.

Kurt is here, in Florida, because of some job that needed to be done after both they and someone else lost a leader, whatever that means. I have an inkling that _Papa Rooney_, whoever he is, has filled the leader position, and yet he has to be an old name because the woman running the store definitely knew of him, or at least the implications brought by his name. Whatever Kurt's job is, it involves infiltrating the ranks of these people that I'm supposed to call friends. Whatever Kurt's job is, it appears that he's met an obstacle. In the back of my mind, I know that this obstacle is me, but it's an easier problem to wrap my head around when envisioning a third party interloper.

There is one annoyingly elated part of me that simply will not be quelled no matter how inappropriate the glee is. Kurt's Uncle Liam seemed to think that his nephew felt something for me, and he'd also revealed that Kurt and I share the same preferences. The corner of my mouth tips upward as I think about it and the dark mystery momentarily fades in the shadow of my towering smugness.

Still caught in that bubble of misplaced elation, I swing myself on top of the wall and onto the level ground above. As I walk back toward the cluster of civilization, my feeling begins to fade away, leaving me with what I started with, which isn't a feeling I'd have welcomed back.

So enormous is the weight of what I know I should be thinking about, I have trouble gathering the wherewithal to put my brain to the issue. This happens to me now and then – I'll have so many things to do that I end up sitting, thinking about what I need to do and not starting on any of it. I put problems away to handle at another time.

That won't work this time, because before I can decide that thoughtful neglect is the answer, the shiny tips of a pair of shoes come into my field of vision, which had previously been of just the grass at my feet.

I look up at the feet's accompanying body and step back, though I'm faced with exactly who I was expecting. "Jumpy," he observes. His voice is quiet, and I'm inclined to think that he seems almost sad.

"I'm avoiding my parents," I reply, silently impressed at how easily the lie slipped from my lips. "They'll have me dancing the night away if they had their way, my mother especially."

"You don't like dancing?" Kurt asks, head tilting to the side.

"No, I actually enjoy it," I say quickly – _too_ quickly. An elephant would have been more subtle. "I – I mean…I like dancing with…people I want to dance with. I'm just not very…interested in who they'd have me accompanying." I have no idea why these personal and compromising things come out of my mouth when I'm around Kurt, but I can't seem to control them.

He nods slowly and tips his head up to look at the stars. For the first time, I look away from his eyes to what he's wearing. The suit is cut with sharp, slim lines that draw the eye toward his chest and trim hips, and his hair is arranged flawlessly. The pinstripes on the dark grey suit would usually look almost absurd when compared to the popular white dinner jackets so many men at the main house are wearing, but when they're on Kurt, it seems as if everyone else is absurd. I grin wryly as I think that it makes him look like a character out of some newspaper mafia caricature. In as long as it takes for the grin to fully form, I stop dead. My heart seems to skip a beat as I realize what I just thought. I open my mouth and gape at him like a fish out of water.

Thankfully he doesn't notice, or if he does he doesn't mention my obvious stupidity. "Who'd they have ya dance with?"

"You know," I choke out. I forget that it took almost half an hour to get my hair into order, and I run my hand through it. "Daughters of all their friends and then some…people I've been pretending to get on with since I was young, and others I would never be able to see as anything other than a sibling."

He smiles slowly, which makes me smile in turn. Vaguely I realize that we'd begun walking and we're now making our way in circles around the main house. "Who would ya _want_ to dance with, then?"

I take a shaky breath as I contemplate how to answer. "I suppose that my parents wouldn't quite approve of any choice I'd make for myself about that, which is why they insist on choosing for me." It's a bit of a round-about answer, but Kurt's clever.

"Would ya want to dance with me?" He asks the question as if he's inquiring about the weather, or about what's on the menu for dinner. His tone betrays nothing, as I've come to expect, but his eyes hold a mischievous twinkle.

I'm at a loss. Do I lie or do I make a fool of myself and tell the truth? As a compromise, I settle for neither. "I've never danced with a…not woman before," I say stupidly, mentally bashing myself over the head with something heavy when I say _not woman_ instead of _man_.

Kurt's grin grows. "That ain't an ansah." He stops walking and reaches out. He barely brushes his hand against my sleeve but it halts me immediately. I turn toward him and receive the full intensity of his rainbow eyes. "_Would you want to dance with me_?" It's noticeable that he's taking pains to say each word carefully and intensely.

"Yes." I breathe out the answer in a rush of air before I can stop myself. Even after I affirm, I don't regret admitting it as I had thought I might.

I'm not imaging it when Kurt inhales slowly and shakily. He looks back up at the stars again. "Then do it."

"_Excuse me?_"

"Dance with me." He looks back down at me. "I'm asking ya. Dance with me, Blaine." I note that it's the first time he's used my first name without my last.

"I – I've never…"

"So?"

"We can't go to the dance floor…it's not…I mean, people don't think it's right." I'm beginning to shake as I reveal my insecurities to this stranger. "They whisper things about me behind my back. They think I'm…abnormal, all because of this – all because of who I am."

"Fuck them," Kurt whispers fiercely, taking a step closer to me. "Do you think ya abnoahmal? Do ya think _I_ am?"

"No," I whisper, eyes fixed on him as he steps closer.

"I can heah the music…can't you?"

"I can hear it," I affirm.

Kurt's mouth twists into a grin. "Then who needs a dance floah?"

I don't return the smile. Instead my eyes travel down to Kurt's hands, hanging at his sides. Hesitantly, I reach out my left hand to touch his right. My touch slides down the back of his hand and across his fingers. The reach his palm and flip his hand so his palm is facing upward. To Kurt's credit, he doesn't say a thing, or move away.

With remarkable ease, my fingers entwine with his. I look away from them and up at Kurt. He's looking down at our entwined hands with a smile on his face. In that moment, with that expression fresh in my mind, my heart seems too full. I suddenly believe that what I heard was true. I believe what Uncle Liam said about Kurt getting distracted by 'one of them' – me. I can't put stock in Kurt's denial when he's looking at our hands like that. I can't believe that I'm a number in the grand scheme of some family job when even after his uncle's chilling lecture, Kurt came to find me, and asked me to dance. I believe that in spite of the forces working against us, the fact that we are right here right now _means_ something. I don't believe that it isn't possible I could fall in love. I think that I'm already starting to.

After this burst of epiphanies, my mind is cleared of conflict. A grin lights my face and I put my other hand on Kurt's shoulder. When a moment before we'd been having a tense, personal confrontation, we were now dancing together, on a grass field behind the main house. We twirl in circles in a dance that isn't even a real dance, but I could care less. Kurt has adopted this silly, carefree grin that I've never seen on his face before. He looks _happy_, and for the first time I'm able to see how young he really is. He's too young to be so serious all the time. He can't be more than a year older than me.

I'm not sure when it happens, but gradually his arm sneaks farther across my back and mine begins to reach further behind his shoulder, each inch drawing us closer together. The large grins have gone off our faces, but I can that tell neither of us feels less elated than we felt a moment ago. I can't tear my eyes away from his. I don't want to, because if I do he might vanish in the blink of an eye, like a dream escaping your mind when you waken, or a shadow fleeing the corner of your eye.

"Whatta we doing?" Kurt breaths softly, now so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath as he talks.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I've never done this before."

He smiles hesitantly. His rainbow eyes flicker over my face before settling again on my own eyes. "I haven't eithah. I think we have moah in common than meets the eye. My family wouldn't have this fah me, eithah. It's not recommended to have feelings when ya wuhk…wheh I do, let alone for someone that's," his mouth twists into a smile, "a _not woman_."

I flush and look away. I'm surprised he's even telling me this. Now that I've thought that word – _mafia_ – I can't get it out of my head. How am I supposed to know what someone in the mafia looks like? He could very well just have a large, extremely protective and goal-oriented family of all males. As I try to justify that explanation in my head, it seems to grow more flimsy. Strangely enough, his mention of the word _family_ doesn't even ruffle me. It seems insignificant in light of his admission.

"You aren't supposed to be here," I say quietly. It's not a question in my mind, and I don't phrase it like one.

"No," he confirms. "No one knows." We've stopped spinning around in our non-dance and are now just standing, holding each other. Kurt's gaze flicks over to the main house. "Should we go back?"

"Who are you?" I ask suddenly. I know I shouldn't know – that I _can't_ know – and yet I hopes he tells me. "You aren't one of us, I know that. The same crowd comes every year. I'd know you. I'd know your family. I'd know your ancestry. I'd know everything about you because that's how we are." I shake my head, suddenly wondering if I'm attracted to this mysterious person because he's so unlike the people I know. "But I don't know anything about you. I don't know your last name. I don't know why you do the things you do and say the things you say. I don't know why you told me to stop thinking about you the last time we met, but you came and found me tonight."

"Because I'm selfish," Kurt admits in that same emotionless tone, eyes turned away from me though he doesn't move away. "I say the things I say because people are safuh if I tell them to stay away. I do the things I do…because I'm always in a battle…haht ah logic. Logic knows I shouldn't be heah. Haht says I should. Do ya see what I mean?"

I nod slowly. "Why are you here then?" I ask. "It isn't because of me."

"No," he answers. "It ain't because of you. I knew ya'd be heah though. I wanted to talk to ya."

"Why?" I persist. "Why want to talk to me if you can't tell me anything?"

"Because I – I…" Kurt falters to a stop and looks down at the ground. Surprised at this sudden display of weakness, I release our entwined hands and use my newly free hand to gently tilt his chin until he's looking at me again.

"Why are you here?" I ask quietly.

I expect another roundabout answer or a skirting of the question but I don't get. What I get is what I least expect: the beginnings of the truth. "Do ya know what happened a couple months ago? It was Octobah 17th…you probably don't remembah."

I shake my head to indicate no. October 17th is an awfully precise date to remember one thing for. "I don't know what happened."

"Al Capone was sentenced to eleven yeuhs in prison." Kurt scoffed and shook his head. "Fuh tax evasion…Volstead Act violations wuh dropped."

"I read about it in the newspaper," I say, remembering suddenly. "Mother was elated."

Kurt smiles wryly. "A lotta othuh people think Capone was a hero. They think he was an American Robin Hood, protecting men from the oppressing hands of big govahnment. He was admiahed."

"By you?" I ask.

Kurt shrugs, not shaken by my question. "He coulda been. It didn't wuhk out that way."

Trying to keep my voice level, I ask Kurt the question that has been on my mind since I saw him. "Is that what you are, then? You're in the…mafia? Like Al Capone."

Kurt chuckles and shakes his head. "Not the mafiar," he says, finding amusement in my question that I fail to see. "_Not_ like Al Capone. The mafia's from Sicily." I shake my head, more confused than ever. "You probably didn't read about this one…Decembah 22nd, just a couple weeks ago. Frank Wallace and Dobo Walsh wuh ambushed and killed by the Italian mafiar in their enemy's territory, the North End." Kurt looks up at me and clarifies, "Little Italy."

"They weren't supposed to be there, then?" I ask. I feel like a school child who's having immense trouble keeping up with the rest of the class. "They weren't allies with the mafia?"

"No," Kurt confirms. "They were from South Bawston…like me."

I look away. I'd wanted to hear this, but I hadn't been prepared for any of it. I hadn't expected Kurt to tell me anything even though I'd asked for it, and what I was hearing now was overwhelming. "Th-then you're…you're part of the…"

"You know," Kurt says. His hands drop away from me slowly as if he's waiting for me to stop him, but I don't. I can't, not yet. "I can tell ya do. It makes sense, don't it?"

It does make sense. Even the way he looks makes sense. He doesn't have the tan countenance of a descendant of southern Europe. The pale skin, the light eyes, and the elven shape of his face are indicative of something else. They're reminiscent of something northern. The big family, the conversation I overheard on the beach and the one I overheard at the wall, the expression on the store owner's face when I mentioned Papa Rooney, the things Kurt has said to me, his accent, and even the various things I've seen him wearing all make sense. "The mob," I say slowly. "You're…you're part of the Irish mob."

The lack of both affirmation and denial gives me my answer. Kurt looks away, as if he's ashamed of himself now that I know. "The mawb," he repeats, as if he's hearing the word for the first time.

We stand there in silence for a few moments, neither of us knowing what to say. In the last hour, I've been more intimate and emotional with him than I have been with anyone else in my entire life. I've admitted my secret to find out that he has the same one. I've talked about my parents and my insecurities about who I am, and he's told me his ultimate secret, the one that's dangerous enough to get us both in serious trouble.

"What will they do if they find out you're with me?" I ask, not sure if I can handle the answer.

Kurt looks at the lights of the main house's dance floor then back to me. "Aftuh Capone's indictment, the mafiar had to scramble. He was the figurehead for their institution. Now, with the Volstead Acts wearing on the country, bootlegging is all there is for…people like us, both the mafiar and the mob. Capone used to monopolize Florida but that was befoah. Aftuh Octobah 17th, Wallace took the east…here. Capone still has strong connections in Miami, too strong to take the whole state, but you gotta staht somewheh."

"Because he isn't dead," I say, putting pieces of the puzzle together. "He still has connections because he isn't dead. But now that Frank Wallance and Dobo Walsh have been murdered, you've both lost leaders but only yours are gone permanently." I look at Kurt to see him surveying me intently. "You're just trying to save yourselves."

Kurt is still for a moment, and then nods. "I was supposed to come heah and infiltrate these people. They told me to do whatever I needed to do to cement connections with all the powahful families of the east coast." He lets out a puff of air and closes his eyes. "I didn't count on…"

"That's why you knew who I was." Kurt nods and a horrible thought occurs to me. "Is that what this is?" I ask quietly. "Am I a…connection? Have you just been doing whatever you need to do?" In light of the overheard conversation with Kurt and his uncle my worry doesn't make sense, but I can't stop it from bothering me.

"I wish," Kurt says, surprising me with his honesty. "But that's not what this is. I didn't plan this. I…I never would've dared to wish fah something like this to happen." He reaches out, takes my hand, and twines our fingers together once more. When he looks up at me, his eyes are sad. "You'll be collatahral damage, in my family's eyes. You'd be a byprawduct of what they'd say is unnatural romanticism. You'd be the thing that ruined all of ah big plans. That's why I kept saying you'd be bettah leaving me…because you's a bump in the road and no one I know would be unwilling to take ya out."

I don't say anything – I can't find words to say. "Do ya undahstand what I'm saying?" Kurt asks with more urgency. He squeezed my hand tighter, and he looks panicked. "I can't _do_ this. I can't do what I'm supposed to. I can't take advantage of these people when _you_ ah one of them. Blaine, they'll _kill_ you."

I've known what he was getting at for a minute or so, but hearing the inescapable words spoken out loud was a shock. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves. "What do I do?" I ask quietly. Now, I have no choice but to put my full trust into this person I hardly know – this stranger in the night who has my life and heart in his hands.

"Wait fah the right time," he says with assurance. We look at each other for a minute or so, trying to steady our racing hearts before we have to leave our bubble and face the reality of what is literally starting to hunt us.

A loud cheer bursts from the main house, making both Kurt and I jump. An explosion follows, and I spend several seconds in complete panic before I see the bright lights in the sky that indicate fireworks. It's a bit bizarre that we hire out someone to set off fireworks every year just for us, but that's snobbish entitlement for you.

"It's just the midnight display," I say with relief, turning away from the main house and back to Kurt.

He's looking at me, smiling. "Happy New Year, Blaine," he says quietly.

A briefly squeeze his hand tighter. "Happy New Year, Kurt," I whisper in return.

I look down at our joined hands and smile. When I look back up to Kurt's rainbow eyes, I see them fixed on a point on my face that's a few inches below my gaze. I don't have time to process what's about to happen before he leans forward, his eyes fluttering shut.

Our lips connect in a shaky inhalation of breath and the sudden electrifying tingle low in my abdomen feels stronger than any fireworks in the sky. One of my hands winds its way around his waist, and I feel his arms circle around my neck, drawing us closer. I lift my free hand and brush his hair back gently.

We pull away just enough to catch breath. Our foreheads and noses still touch, and our lips brush against one another's as we smile. I take the opportunity for my fingers to skate softly across his temple, down his cheek, and to his chin. With a feather light touch, I tip his chin so that we're kissing again, with all the fervor of two people who might be seeing each other for the last time.

I dip in, kissing him fervently over and over as if that might make him stay forever, and he tightens his grip around my shoulders, pulling me closer as if he can prevent anyone from tearing us apart. His tongue slips out to slide against my top lip, and I let out a breathless sigh at the sensation.

I vaguely notice that the firework show is stopping, but I don't move away. Seconds and minutes blur into one another as my lips move against Kurt's, and I don't know how much time has passed when we finally pull away, breathing heavily.

I smile up at him and grab his hand to pull him to a bench that's pressed up against the back of the main house. On the other side of the house is the dance, which will soon begin to disperse.

I lean my head on Kurt's shoulder, and his head comes to lean on mine. "Will they come looking for you?" he asks. "Parents? Friends?"

"I doubt it," I reply. "Richard will be preoccupied with planning a marriage to whatever beautiful woman he's found. Alice will be off with James. My parents will wait until I show up again, and then they'll berate me." I shrug. "Will yours come looking for you?" This blissful security has to end sometime, and I'd rather be prepared.

"Yes," Kurt responds without hesitation. "They'll know by now that I nevah showed up, and that I nevah spoke to anyone. My Uncle Liam will've told them about ya. Papa Rooney will decide that neither of us have as much value as what I cost the family. It's all happening now."

"How long do we have?" I ask. As if my ears were burning with what was about to happen, I look up and see half a dozen figures clad in black walking across the grass. They aren't coming toward us – we're pressed against the dark side of the building and are therefore invisible, for now. The figures wear long dark trench coats and hats to conceal the upper halves of their faces, even though it's pitch black. "Kurt," I whisper, nudging him and nodding toward the figures scanning the grounds, presumably for us.

"Shit," Kurt hisses quietly. Though I've now heard faltering in his voice, this is the first time that I hear genuine fear, and that scares me more than anything else could. "That was fastah than I thought it would take." He twists his head around, looking for other men, but six seem to be all there is. "They don't know wheh we ah. We could've left two hours ago fuh all they know. They're just checking."

"Do we stay here?" I ask. "Should I go home?"

"No," Kurt says quickly. "They'll know wheh ya live, and you'd only be putting ya family in dangah if ya go back. They won't do anything to ya parents. They still want to forge an alliance with them. They'll probably pretend to be law enfoahcement…ask where ya ah. It's bettah that ya parents don't know." Kurt stands, my hand still in his, and I follow his lead. "And we don't stay eithah. They'll find us. Just because they don't know that we're still heah doesn't mean they won't be thorough."

Kurt runs a hand through his perfect hair, disordering it so that it flops onto his forehead when he turns his head this way and that, looking for his family that have now come to take us. "Follow me. Take off ya shoes so ya won't make noise, but don't leave them behind or they'll know we've been heah. Keep ya head down when ya run, and if ya heah gunfiyah, don't stop."

His speech isn't doing anything to motivate me to run. On the contrary, it's cementing my feet in fear, but I nod. Kurt knows what he's doing now – I don't. My only choice is putting my life in his hands.

Kurt watches the six men as they go to our right. "Straight to the nearest house on the left," Kurt orders, grabbing my hand. "Go!" He begins to run and I quickly follow him, head down like he instructed. No one calls out anything and there is no gunfire. We make it to the house without being seen.

"We're going theah," Kurt says, pointing to the nearest road. "We follow it to town and catch a taxicab."

I nod, still unable to speak, and we both look back at the six men. They've broken apart so that they each scan an area, covering a lot of ground at once. The nearest man is close enough that I can see that one of his hands is under his long coat, presumably hiding a gun. "Oh God," I whisper quietly as he walks.

"Don't think about it," Kurt advises. "Think about it and you'll wind up ovahthinking and getting killed. Think about the fact that we have to get to that road as soon as possible. Think about the destination not the obstacles."

In spite of the fact that we're literally being chased by death, I can't help but be impressed by Kurt's motivational speech. I nod at him and we're off again. He takes my hand this time, pulling me along as he dodges deftly behind houses and palm trees.

One gap, larger than the other open spaces we've been across so far, sits between us and our escape. "It's dahk, which is the main defense we have," Kurt tells me as we crouch behind a tree and look out at the hunters, who have almost covered everything in viewing distance. "Just keep running. Ready?"

I look up at him and am faced with a look of stark determination. He's doing all of this for me, I realize. We've both gone against our families for someone we've only known for a matter of a week, but Kurt has risked a lot more for me than I ever would have believed anyone would. I tip up my face until our lips meet, and kiss him forcefully. "Let's go," I reply.

A half-hearted smile flutters across his face and we're running again, hand in hand, bare feet pattering against the ground beneath us. As I was dreading, I hear a cry. "Kurt!" Kurt doesn't reply, and he doesn't stop. He picks up his pace and I increase my speed in turn. My legs and lungs are burning but the knowledge that we're being chased puts energy into my movements.

We're almost at the road, which is forested on both sides by palm trees and other warm weather foliage. We dodge into the greenery just as I hear something whiz past my ear and take the bark off a palm tree five inches to my right.

"Don't stop running," Kurt calls. I wasn't about to, but I squeeze his hand to indicate that I heard and continue to follow him toward the main part of town, where we can catch a cab.

Initially, I hear bullets whiz by but as we run faster and longer, they stop. Kurt and I slow to a halt. "They're watching the tree line," Kurt says, trying to catch his breath. "They know we have to come out sometime, and they'd rathah save the bullets they have." He takes a deep breath and leans back against a tree.

"How do you know so much about what they're going to do?" I ask. "How do you know they'd kill you? You're _one_ of them."

Kurt smiles sadly and shakes his head. "It's because I'm one of them that I know what they'll do," he says. "It doesn't mattah who I am anymoah. If ya go against the family, that's it – ya dead. I know too much about them for them to let me go."

"But how is being here with me betraying them?"

"It isn't, not really," Kurt says. "But ya ahn't allowed to get sawft when ya do what I do. That's what this is…it's me getting sawft, because of you. It's enough. I'm nobody impahtant to them, just anothah membah of the family – a numbah."

"I'm sorry." It's all I can think of to say. It makes sense in my head, but it sounds pitiful when said aloud.

When Kurt smiles, it's genuine. "Don't be," he says. "Maybe I was supposed to get sawft." He leans in and kisses me slowly, as if he's savoring every last moment. As if to counteract the perfection that seems to surround us when we kiss, Kurt says the last thing I want to hear: "You have to go."

"_Go_?" I repeat incredulously. "But you're coming with me."

He shakes his head sadly. "They're just waiting fah both of us to come out togethah. Go as fah as you can in the woods heah, and then run straight for the centah of the city wheh ya can hail a taxicab."

"W-what are you going to do?" I ask shakily, gripping his hand tighter.

"I'll double back and come onto the road," he says surely. "I've got a bettah chance if I'm alone, if they think I've stopped helping ya escape."

"You just said you were expendable," I say incredulously, using his hand to pull him toward me. "Now you want me to let you go back alone and get killed just so I can escape?"

"If that's what happens," Kurt says, "then that's what happens. I'll be bettah for it because I'll know ya got away."

"I won't!" I exclaim, louder than I meant to. Kurt hisses and claps a hand over my mouth. I lift his hand away and speak again in a proper tone. "I won't be better for it. You can't do this and then just walk away from me."

"If it's the best chance we both have at living, why not?" Kurt asks logically. "Die togethah or separate to possibly live and see each othah again?"

I look away because his words have almost worked me up to tears. It's the heart versus logic battle that Kurt mentioned earlier, only now my heart guides me to conclusions that don't make sense while his logic leads him to chances that I don't want to have to take.

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask quietly. "Catch the taxicab and then what?"

"Do ya still have the present I gave ya?" he asks hurriedly. His hands run up and down my arms as if he's trying to keep me warm.

"Yes," I reply. I've worn it on a chain around my neck since I received it.

"Good," he says. "Use it."

"W-what are you _talking_ about? Did you know this was going to happen?" I ask, shaking my head in puzzlement. "I don't –"

My words are cut off by another kiss – our last. Kurt cups my face in his hand and presses into the kiss powerfully, bending my head back slightly with the force of it. "I'll see ya again, Blaine Anduhson," he whispers against my lips. He shoves me in the direction I'm supposed to go, as if he fears I'll get lost or turn to follow him. "Go," he says, pointing. "_Go!_"

Hating what I'm doing, I run away from him. My shoes are still clasped in my hands and my feet hurt from running across the uneven ground. I don't hear anything, so I can only assume I'm alone.

I reach town in what seems like no time, and I head straight for the center of town, like Kurt said. It's nosier and more crowded here than it was at the beach houses, and people turn to stare, or recoil in shock when they see me blundering along, panicked, disheveled, and shoeless. Surprisingly, I find a cab with little effort. I open the door, but look out across the town as if expecting to see Kurt running toward me and telling me to hold the door.

I don't see him. I look back down the road I came down, and it's as black as night. There's no sign of bloodshed and yet no sign of life. My heart sinking, I slide into the back seat of the car. I want to go back and see what's happened, but I also know that Kurt is right. We have better chances apart, at least for now. He could be dead, or shot and dying, and I wouldn't know. But he could also be alive, and that's the thought I cling to.

"Where are you going, boss?" the driver asks patiently.

I sigh and lean my head back against the headrest. I have no idea where I'm going. I pull the key out from where it sits hidden under my shirt. I turn the metal over in my hands. "I wonder," I whisper, eyes narrowing as I look at the key. Suddenly resolved, I look up at the driver, who's observing me as if I'm crazy. "2221 Lantern Lane and you'll get extra if you drive fast and don't tell anyone where you've taken me."

"You got it," the driver says, tapping his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. As we drive, I try to wipe my mind of everything bad that has happened. I try to hold onto the moment the fireworks lit the sky and Kurt leaned in to kiss me, and the feeling of his lips curving into a smile as he pressed them to mine. I try to hold onto his promise that we would see each other again, rather than his cold calculation of why the mob would have no trouble killing both of us.

This mental dilemma lasts until we reach Lantern Lane. I give the driver his money and bonus and he drives away, leaving me alone. I have to trust him not to take any larger bribe that the mob might give him, though hopefully I haven't just made the poor man an accessory to anything by paying him off.

I hold the key tightly and look at the house. It's barred with a gate. My initial thought when Kurt told me to 'use it' was that the key would open the house and he would meet me there. Seeing the impassible bars, that possibility fades away. Overwhelmed tears threatening to spill, I sit down on the sidewalk next to the same car that was parked along the curb the first time I came here.

"What are you for?" I ask the key quietly, turning it over in my hands. I haven't taken the time to inspect it thoroughly, thinking it was just a plain metal key, but as I look at it now, I see tiny print on the edge of the metal: "Ford".

My mouth drops as I realize what the key is for. I scramble to my feet in a hurry, run around the car, and hurriedly try to unlock the door. The lock clicks, and the door opens. Dumbfounded, I slip into the seat. My head is buzzing, so I sit there trying to catch my breath for several moments.

When I have enough presence of mind, I look around me and spot a scrap of paper on the floor of the car, text down. Written in the same print as the address that came with the key is a note:

_I guess it had to happen, no matter how many times _

_I told myself that I wouldn't let you get in the way._

_Can I be honest? I think I knew when I saw you, red_

_as a lobster, on the beach that first day. Fate is a funny_

_thing. I'm still trying to decide if I believe in it._

_The keys to the ignition are in the glove compartment._

_Go straight to New York. Stay in your house. Make_

_something up to tell your parents. Don't tell them_

_the truth – it will only endanger them. If you're_

_reading this, that means I'm not with you. I tend to_

_make rash decisions, so I don't know what it is I've_

_done, but I do know that it's probably for your sake._

_We'll see each other again. Believe it, Blaine. We will._

–_Kurt Hummel_

Hummel. Kurt Hummel. I read the name and note over again and again until I'm sure that I must have it memorized. Finally, I lean over and open the glove compartment to get the keys. They're sitting there, just where he said they'd be. I start the car and put my hands on the steering wheel.

We'll see each other again. Kurt said it, so I want nothing more than for it to be true. After all, everything else he's said so far has proven correct. I want to believe him. I need to. I start to drive down Lantern Lane with a set resolution in mind. I'll drive home and wait for my parents to return, and then I'll look for Kurt Hummel. I won't stop until I've found him.

**END OF PART ONE OF THE SINATRA TRILOGY**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Well, that's that! I hope everyone enjoys how it tied up, and there's still two more parts to the trilogy. I'm publishing them as two different stories, "Something Stupid" and "Summer Wind", though I'm no longer sure which will come first, and I probably won't publish them until Prince Charming is done - also, they're more likely to be one-shots ^^_

_If you need any clarification at all about the history of the politics I used in this chapter or the intricacies of the Irish mob, or if there's lingo you didn't get, don't hesitate to ask! I know that it can get a bit confusing so I'd be happy to clear up anything that will make the story a better reading experience. _

_Thanks for reading, and please leave a review to let me know what you thought of the ending! :D_


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